


Origin of Love

by gutsandglitter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsandglitter/pseuds/gutsandglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Mycroft meet a mont h after their painful breakup. Loosely based on the song "Origin of Love" from Hedwig and the Angry Inch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin of Love

_Last time I saw you we had just split in two. You were looking at me, I was looking at you._  
Greg’s anatomy fell to pieces. His stomach dropped, his lungs seized up, his heart leapt to his throat as he watched the figure duck under the crime scene tape. To anyone else it would have seemed like Mycroft was unflappable as ever, but Greg saw the faint pinking of his cheeks and the way his hands twitched almost imperceptibly.  
Good, Greg thought.  
It had been a month. Greg had almost deluded himself into thinking he would never have to see that man again, forgetting that Sherlock played an integral role in both their lives and often led to their paths crossing. That was how they had met originally, outside Sherlock’s hospital room after a small acid burn incident.  
 _You had a way so familiar but I could not recognize. ‘Cause you had blood on your face, I had blood in my eyes._   
He looked…different. Greg could tell he had lost some weight, and he felt a familiar pang of worry. Had he gone back to that ridiculous diet again? Despite the weight loss there was a decided heaviness to his steps, as if each footfall might be his last.  
 _But I could swear by your expression that the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine._  
As Mycroft neared, Greg’s body began to try and compensate for it’s momentary paralysis. His heart pounded, his hands trembled, and he felt lightheaded.  
Mycroft stopped about a meter shy of Greg.  
“Hello Gregory,” he said quietly, almost whispering. His voice was so soft, not like it had been the last time. Last time it had been full of anger, the insults had dripped from his lips like venom. Now it was timid, the frightened squeak of an apologetic mouse. Greg softened a little knowing that this was Mycroft’s equivalent of a teary reunion.  
“Hey Mycroft,” he replied, overcoming the temptation to just say “My” like he used to. “How are things?”  
Mycroft nodded, stiffening slightly at the use of his proper name. “Fine, fine. And…yourself?”  
He shrugged. “Alright I suppose.” Dying inside from missing you so much, but I’m alright, he added in his head.  
 _That's the pain that cuts a straight line down through the heart; We called it love._   
He shouldn’t miss him. He really shouldn’t. Their relationship had been a constant struggle. They very rarely had free time they could spend together, and in the last few months of the relationship most of that free time had been spent fighting. Mycroft was a nag who could barely discuss anything in his life; Greg drank too much who often carried the emotional baggage of his work day home with him.  
It had probably been for the best that it ended when it did. Greg had known it had been doomed from the start, knew there had to be a catch to how much happiness being with Mycroft had brought him in the beginning. And in the middle-y part. And during most of the end. Actually their last night together had started off wonderfully, just a quiet night cuddling in front of the fire. It had ended in violent swearing and Greg storming out, but the cuddling part had been nice.  
Greg shuddered slightly at the memory. A shadow crossed Mycroft’s face and he knew the politician was thinking the same thing.  
“Listen, Mycroft-“ he began.  
“No, Gregory.” Mycroft held up his hand. He let out a heavy sigh. “I must apologize. That night I ah, was upset and let my pride interfere with my better judgment.”  
Greg rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I threw a glass of scotch at your head. I don’t think either of us was a picture of rationality at the time.”  
“But I let you go!” Mycroft cried. “I watched you leave when I should have run after you, dropped down on my knees and begged you to stay. I let my damned pride keep me from doing that, the right thing, and I have absolutely hated myself for it since.”  
Greg’s jaw dropped sharply. “Oh. Ah. Well,” he stuttered lamely.  
Mycroft dropped his head to stare at his Italian loafers. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you go back to your work. I just needed to tell you how sorry I am. For everything.”  
He started to turn, and Greg felt himself reaching out and grabbing his forearm. Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to look at the DI.  
“My,” he said slowly. “If you regret letting me go that night that badly, think how I’ll feel if I let you walk away from me now.”  
A tiny spark of hope flickered behind Mycroft’s steely blue eyes.  
Greg sighed. “My, we’re awful together. I mean, we are all wrong for each other but Goddamnit I don’t care because I love you and this month has been living hell.”  
Mycroft snorted slightly. “It is a curious paradox, isn’t it?”  
“Yeah,” Greg said, not entirely sure what the word paradox meant. He looked down and realized his hand was still latched onto Mycroft’s forearm. He chuckled. “Okay, I’m going to let go and walk away now, but you’ve got to promise me you’re not going to let your pride stop you from picking me up from work tonight.”  
Mycroft reached down and took Greg’s hand, bringing the pads of the detective’s fingers to his lips and brushing a soft kiss across them. “I promise, my love.”  
 _So we wrapped our arms around each other, trying to shove ourselves back together. We were making love, making love…_

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the song if anyone is interested: http://youtu.be/l8bEohwZ2BE . It's based on Plato's theory of soulmates.


End file.
